Robert Weinberg - A Calculated Magic

“Your thoughts concern death and destruction,” said the first speaker again. Roger needed no prompting to scrunch his eyes closed. If the features matched the voice, the Raging Women were ugliness personified. “We serve justice. You defile it. Your plans have been altered.”

“A human hides behind you,” declared a third sister. Fingers of fear ran down Roger’s spine.

“My servant,” said the Crouching One. “He worships and serves me in the modern world. Surely you would not deny me one disciple?”

“We do not kill without reason,” said the first sister. “That would be cruel, and we are never cruel.”

“I remember,” said the Crouching One, chuckling. “You are the Kindly Ones. If that is the case, be so kind as to leave me and my servant in peace.”

“As you wish,” said the first. “Have a nice day.”

Then they were gone. However, five minutes had passed before the Crouching One told Roger he could open his eyes.

“We must return to the hotel at once,” said the demigod. “The terrible sisters said something about changing my plans. As unstoppable avengers, their presence in Las Vegas bodes ill for tomorrow’s auction.”

“Who were they?” asked Roger, not sure he wanted the truth.

“Busybody contemporaries of mine from Greece,” said the Crouching One. “Insufferable moralists, all the immortals hate them. Though not true gods, they control powers that can threaten even one such as I. Forget them.”

“They’re forgotten,” said Roger.

Hurrying behind the Crouching One to the resort, Roger cheerfully concluded that events were progressing from bad to worse. Which was fine with him. The more confusion, the better. Hopefully, Jack Collins was close at hand and had some mischief plotted for tomorrow night. It actually didn’t matter much. Whatever occurred at the auction, Roger was ready. Long hours of secret deliberations at his computer terminal had finally paid off. The answer to his problems was carefully transcribed on a sheaf of papers in his pocket. He was going to be in charge again. And this time, no one could stop him.

“W ho the blazes,” asked Hugo, thirty minutes later in their suite, “is The Man ?”

“He’s the ultimate modern-day evil authority figure,” said Jack wearily as he pulled off his shoes. “Over the past three decades, poor people living in the inner city have constantly blamed their troubles on him. Sometimes they mean the government, sometimes the police, sometimes the local crime lords. But they all believe that this unseen power broker is the real force behind many of society’s ills.”

Jack paused to pull off his socks. “Enough human beings believing in The Man gave him life. In a sense, they brought their worst nightmare to life. When you birds told me that Hasan al-Sabbah owed money to some fearful, unnamed figure in the loan shark business, I immediately guessed it had to be him. Merlin verified my deduction. He’s heard stories about The Man for years. None of them good. You know the rest.”

“Except,” said Mongo, “the identity of the One Without a Face? Who’s he?”

When Jack shook his head, the raven turned to Cassandra. “How about you, Lady Death? The name strike any chords? You’ve been awfully silent since Jack returned.”

“I never heard of the One Without a Face,” said Cassandra slowly. There was a strange, unreadable look on her face. Something was bothering the Amazon.

“Describe to me again,” she said to Jack, “the smell in the office.”

“I told you,” he replied, “it stank like the alligator pit at the zoo. Or the room where they keep the snakes. It wasn’t pleasant.”

He sighed as he wrenched off his necktie. It had been an incredible day, filled with more than its share of thrills and chills. The supernaturals hardly needed any sleep but he was exhausted. His eyes burned and his head throbbed. He craved rest.

“Don’t ring no bells with me,” said Hugo. The two ravens had remained with Cassandra when Jack left with al-Sabbah. After depositing his winnings, the three supernaturals had returned to their rooms to await Jack’s return.

“Me neither,” said Mongo. “What’s the story, sis? You seen a ghost? Never saw you so pale before.”

“Karsnov betrayed his own country, didn’t he?” asked Cassandra, her voice muted, her eyes closed. “In a sense, he murdered people who were his kith and kin.”

“I suppose you could put it that way,” said Jack, wondering why she asked.

“I thought them vanished in the sands of history,” said Cassandra softly. She sounded almost philosophical. “I should have realized their breed never retire.”

“Mind clueing the rest of us into what you’re talking about?” asked Hugo.

“Karsnov is dead,” said the Amazon. “Of that, I am quite sure. He was slain, while those unlucky enough to be in his vicinity were neutralized through fear and hypnosis, by three contemporaries of mine. A trio of terrible supernatural sisters, the Greeks called them the Eumenides, meaning the Kindly Ones.”

“The Kindly Ones,” repeated Hugo. “I got no problem with a monicker like that.”

“Mortals used the title,” said Cassandra grimly, “because they feared repeating their true names aloud.”

Jack shivered and it wasn’t from the cold. The lights in the room seemed to dim as the ancient Greek words rolled off Cassandra’s tongue. “They are Megaera, the Rager; Alecto, the Endless; and Tisiphone, the Retaliator,” Each name resonated through the chamber like the beat of a giant drum. “Ugly beyond measure, with living snakes for hair, they dispense final justice for the betrayers of parents or kin. They are the Furies.”

“Hell’s bells,” cawed Hugo. Flapping his wings, he flew up to the ceiling. “And you call them the Kindly Ones, huh? You think they’re still in the hotel?”

“No,” said Cassandra. “Once they complete a responsibility, they depart at once. You are quite safe, my fine feathered friend.”

“I wasn’t scared,” protested Hugo, dropping onto Jack’s shoulder. “But snakes for hair? Ugh.”

“Well,” said Mongo, “their unexpected interference helped our cause. No way al-Sabbah’s running an auction with his prize plague master ripped to ribbons.”

“I’m not convinced of that,” said Jack, stretching out on the bed. With the two ravens sitting on the pillows and Cassandra relaxing cross-legged on the edge of the mattress, it was impossible for him to sleep. “A few more minutes, then you characters better leave. I’m ready to collapse.”

“You think the Old Man of the Mountain has a sample of the anthrax virus hidden away for emergencies?” asked Cassandra, ignoring Jack’s last remarks. The Amazon thought more than two hours of sleep a night was a sign of weakness.

“It makes good sense to me,” said Jack. “We know Karsnov used a batch to kill those people Mongo mentioned. Al-Sabbah strikes me as being too shrewd not to obtain a specimen for insurance purposes. Using it, any competent scientist can deduce the proper formula. Dead or not, the Russian’s grisly legacy lives on. And will be offered for sale tomorrow, or should I say since it’s nearly morning, this evening.”

“Enough complaining,” said Cassandra, with a laugh. Rising from the bed, she gathered the two ravens in her arms. “We’ll leave you alone for your beauty rest. Tomorrow will be a busy day.”

“Tell me about it,” said Jack. “First, I visit Paradise. If all goes well, I’ll locate Megan there and figure out a method to set her free. Once that’s accomplished, it’s off to the auction. Where I have to destroy a world-threatening plague culture, defeat an indestructible genie, and outwit his immortal master.”